


Dragon Lord

by esama



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Game), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Out of Character, Partnership
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 02:25:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5894467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You think you can control me?! I am Smaug the Impenetrable, Smaug the Golden, Smaug the Free! And you cannot ensnare me!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Concerning crossover: When the Shadow of Mordor elements will make their appearance I will do my best to introduce them in a way that's friendly to people who haven't played the game. Also I am making some changes to both the movie canon and the game canon - removing some elements from the movie and changing the time line of the game because of reasons. And there will probably be a bunch of elements I will just invent from the top of my head and throw in for fun. So, basically canon is observed only at a distance and through a foggy lens.
> 
> Proofread by Darlene, many thanks.

"You think you can control me?! I am Smaug the Impenetrable, Smaug the Golden, Smaug the Free! And you cannot ensnare me!"

Bilbo dived behind another pillar as a great gust of flames came right at him from the glowing maw that was Smaug's mouth. The heat of it was nearly unbearable and he could see a number of the countless golden coins that were Erebor's great hoard glowing red under the onslaught.

"I did not bend," the great dragon snarled, every word accompanied by a tongue of flame, "when the vermin that is Ungoliant's legacy crept in my fortress, I did not bow when the Shadows grew long and dark, I did not obey when the whispers of death grew louder and I will not break for you either! You will need more," another gust of flames shot out, "than the Dark Lord's sweet lies to enslave me!"

Trying to hold his breath and not inhale the heat of Smaug's flames, Bilbo's sank deeper in his hiding place. There were flames everywhere now, flowing over the gold and turning it molten all around Bilbo – any moment now he knew he'd feel it burn. Surrounded by the hot metal, covered in Smaug's onslaught of flames, there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

This was beyond a bad idea – the whole quest was a terrible idea and it was about to get him killed!

Smaug stopped to inhale and Bilbo knew it would be his last chance – the next breath would let loose the molten gold and he'd die an agonising, burning death.

"I am not trying to ensnare you, oh Smaug the Terrible!" he cried out desperately. "However could I even do such a thing?! Surely no power exists that could command a dragon as great as you!"

"Liar!" the dragon snarled and the whole mountain seemed to tremble at the force of it. "You think I don't feel it on you, that I cannot taste its stench?! I can hear His voice, calling from your finger, calling to me, trying to command me! You brought it here to me, to enslave me to His will and I refuse, I refuse!"

Smaug inhaled and in desperation Bilbo rounded the pillar, visible and hands up in the air, trying not to scream as he stepped on the red hot coins. Even hobbit feet could not withstand the lingering heat of dragon fire. "Wait!" Bilbo cried, his eyes tearing. "Wait, please! Whatever you think I have I don't know, whatever you think I'm doing I swear on my life I am not!"

The dragon snarled at him, but did not breathe fire. "The Ring!" he hissed, the back of his mouth glowing hot red. "You have it. Golden and terrible and precious. I can feel it, I can hear it! Take it out!"

The part of Bilbo that had refused to show the magic ring to Gandalf reared its head and was instantly smothered under the sheer immensity of Bilbo's fear. He fumbled his pocked and dug out the ring, looking for a place to put it and catching sight of an iron chest, sitting half buried in the gold. Hurried, he swept the stray coins and jewels off the top of the chest and slapped the ring down on it.

Smaug stared at it and then roared and it was all Bilbo could do to scamper away, heedless of burns, as Smaug unleashed his fire on the ring. The flames were everywhere, spreading out like spilled water, washing over the mounds of coins and bathing the chest and the ring in hot white fury. Again and again Smaug breathed fire on the ring, until he was roaring at a pool of molten glowing metal, until the force of his roar was pushing the liquid gold away as if it was nothing but smoke you could just blow away.

And at the heart of the crater Smaug was making the ring persisted, glowing red only around the middle, where some mysterious text could be seen.

How long it went on, Bilbo wasn't sure. He crawled away, crying with pain, and at a safe distance nursed his burned feet as much as he could. The tough skin on the soles of his feet had saved him deeper injury and his flesh and bones hadn't been seared bare and bloody… but the burns were bad. Too bad to walk, too bad to even stand. Too bad, for any hope of escape on foot.

The air in the throne hall was growing thin and smoky when Smaug finally stopped. There was a crater in the treasure now, a circle of melted gold and seared stone that was smoking under Smaug hateful gaze. And there in the middle, with no chest in sight, was the Ring.

Utterly unharmed.

Smaug snarled at it and turned to Bilbo. "Where did you get it?"

Bilbo winced, cradling one of his feet in his hand. "In the caves under Misty Mountain, I don't know exactly where. A strange, gangly creature had it – he called it his Precious," he said and took a breath. "All – all I know is that it has the power to turn the wearer invisible."

Smaug narrowed his eyes at him, the spines around his head flaring out a little. Then he looked at the Ring again. "A precious little magical trinket to help a thief in his trade, is it?" he hissed. "How cunning."

Suddenly Smaug turned completely towards Bilbo, pushing close enough that Bilbo could've reached out to pat his nose, had he lost his mind. The firedrake then inhaled so deeply that it created a current. "Dwarves," Smaug exhaled. "Tell me thief, did the idea to steal from me come to you before or after you found the One Ring?"

"I was… I was hired almost a year ago," Bilbo said, seeing no point in lies anymore. He could not run and Smaug had him – the likelihood of him surviving seemed increasingly slim. "The Ring I only found a couple months back."

"And sensing a better host, it came to you so you could bring it to me," Smaug rumbled in disgust and peered at him, slitted pupil flicking up and down to take him in fully. "You've worn it," Smaug said slowly, pupils widening. "The cold of the Wraiths is all over you. For days and days you've worn the One Ring, haven't you, thief?"

"Weeks, it was weeks. Our company was captured by the Wood Elves, I was the only one who managed to avoid capture," Bilbo admitted weakly. "It took some time to arrange our escape."

Smaug said nothing, just hissed wordlessly from between his sharp teeth and turned back to the Ring. As he did, swishing his tail about like an agitated cat, Bilbo examined his feet again. Maybe… maybe if he bound them…

"On your way here, thief, did you see many Orcs?" Smaug asked.

Bilbo snorted, and shrugged off his coat. It was fine velvet and all too big for him and he had no qualm about tearing it into strips. "Trolls, Orcs, Goblins, Wargs, you name it. And giant spiders too, they're all over Greenwood. And I heard Gandalf -"

"Gandalf?!" Smaug snarled, rounding up on him. "The Grey Wizard? What has he to do with this?!"

Bilbo swallowed dryly. "I – he – he's the reason I'm here, he chose me – he's been guiding our Quest for Erebor -"

"Wizard!" Smaug roared and turned away sharply. Coins were thrown everywhere as Smaug, for the lack of a better word, paced in agitation. "A wizard behind it all – of course. Reclaiming Erebor, are you? A fortress against the encroaching Darkness and enough wealth," he swept his talons through the coins angrily, "to build armies. He sent you to kill me!"

"Well," Bilbo winced. "Just to get the Arkenstone for now, really. Everyone's still a bit unclear on… on the rest."

"And the Ring?" Smaug demanded to know. "Does the wizard know about the Ring?!"

"Er, that is – no. I could bring myself to say, it…" Bilbo shrank a little under Smaug's severe gaze. "It didn't seem important."

Smaug threw his head back and laughed – and if a dragon could be hysterical, that was what Smaug was. "No, of course not – he would've never sent it here, to me!" Smaug roared with laughter and turned to Bilbo. "You, thief, do not even know what you might have done – what you would have done, were I but any other dragon! What a terrible thing a dragon under the rule of the One Ring of Power could be!"

Bilbo watched him warily as he bound his blistering feet. "What's the One Ring of Power?" he asked finally.

Smaug only laughed harder, throwing his head back and bellowing out his deep, resounding guffaws at the ceiling. It would've been ridiculous were it not so terrible, and all Bilbo could do was watch and wait for it to pass.

"What," Smaug finally said, still laughing, "is the One Ring of Power, thief?" he turned and glided over the golden coins, scattering them everywhere as he circled Bilbo, enclosing him in a wall of dragon scales. "It is the Heart of Darkness, the Lynchpin of Death, the Key to Ultimate Power, all these things and more," the dragon rumbled. "Greatest of Calamities you called me – ha! You carried it in your pocket yourself."

Bilbo swallowed and shuddered as Smaug pushed his head close, peering at him with a single eye. "That Ring," the dragon continued. "The One Ring of Power is the greatest of all evils on this Middle Earth – barring, perhaps, for the one who made it."

Bilbo wetted his dry, cracking lips, glancing between Smaug and over his tail at the crater in gold. "I… don't understand," he answered. And he didn't. Smaug was only talking in riddles – and who would know that a _dragon_ was so fond of grand narratives and monologues?

"Whatever are they teaching you, thief, in whatever place you hail from?" Smaug snorted. "You are undoubtedly of the Free People of Middle Earth, and you know nothing of what makes you _free_."

Bilbo shook his head, but before he could actually think of what to say to that, the dragon explained. Except, he didn't. Instead he read out a poem. " _Three Rings to the Elven Kings under the sky_ ," Smaug rumbled, deep and low in his chest. " _Seven for the Dwarf Lords in their halls of Stone. Nine for the Mortal Men, doomed to die. One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne, in the_ _Land_ _of_ _Mordor_ _where the Shadows lie_."

Bilbo shuddered as Smaug's breath washed over him with each sentence, hot and heavy and horrible. " _One Ring to Rule them all, One Ring to find them,_ " the dragon continued. " _One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them… in the_ _Land_ _of_ _Mordor_ _where the Shadows lie_."

Smaug chuckled once he was done, and the mound of gold trembled under it. "Even I know this, Celebrimbor's warning and the Doom of Kings. Know you nothing of history, thief? Know you not of the great battles of the War of the Last Alliance?"

Bilbo blinked rapidly at that and turned to look at Smaug. "I know that one," he admitted, his voice sounding oddly small and shivery after Smaug's great recitation. "My mother used to tell me about it – the Last Alliance of Elves, Dwarves, and Men. The Conquest of Minas Ithil, the Defence of Minas Anor and Osgiliath – the Battle of Dagorlad and the Siege of Barad-dûr. My mother used to tell me about them as my bedtime stories."

Smaug rumbled at that in amusement and disgust. "And you thought them fairytales," he guessed, rather correctly. "They are not stories, thief. They are history. And the Darkness fought by the host of Free People is that which forged that Ring," he said and lifted his head to glare at the offending piece of jewellery. "And the loss of which ended that war and the finding of which may begin another. Forged by the Dark Lord that opposed the Great Alliance, to control all the others, to bind all the others to his will, to _rule_ them all."

The dragon hissed at the Ring and then looked at Bilbo. "And to rule everything that comes near it. It whispers to you even now, it whispers to me – can't you hear it? Promises of safety and power and wealth," he snarled. "Sweet, sweet lies by the greatest liar of them all. What is it saying to you, thief?"

Bilbo tilted his head, and honestly he did try to hear whatever Smaug thought he ought to be hearing. But there was nothing there. "I can't hear anything," he said and shrank back a little when Smaug rounded sharply on him. "Honestly, oh Great Smaug, I hear nothing!"

"Nothing?" Smaug snarled. "Then you feel it – you want to take it, don't you, you want to hide it and keep it to yourself, you want to escape into the shelter of its invisibility. Don't you?!"

Bilbo almost toppled over as the dragon roared at him. "I hardly think I could!" he gasped. "You're all around me – where on earth could I go?"

The dragon hissed and pushed close, so close that his snout pressed against Bilbo's belly. His glare pinned the Hobbit in place. "I can feel you, cold and misty and _broken_. You wore it for weeks, you say, and I believe you," he rumbled, his slitted pupils expanding and shrinking in turns as he looked Bilbo over. "How is it you cannot feel its call? Can't hear His voice?"

There was nothing Bilbo could say to that, so he said nothing – truthfully, he was so frozen by fear that he couldn't have even if he had known what to say. His feet were aching, pulsing with pain, and his throat was dry and cracking with the heat and dryness of the air, and his head had started to pound with the lack of air, and he couldn't think much at all.

"What are you, thief?" Smaug demanded. "What is your desire, what does the Ring promise you? Why did you come here?"

Bilbo wetted his lips again, hesitant. "I am… I am Bilbo Baggins of Bagend," he said slowly, with none of Smaug's grandiose force. "I am a Hobbit of Hobbiton, and of the Shire. I am… a Halfling and not half of anything." He gritted his teeth a little as Smaug bared his teeth at him. "And I want… I want to go home, more than anything I want to go home. And I want – I want to see the Dwarves of Erebor reclaim their homeland. And I want… to not die," he finished awkwardly. "That's… about it, really."

"You want none of Erebor's riches, is that it?" Smaug sneered at him.

"Honestly I haven't a clue what I would even do with them," Bilbo sighed.

Smaug snorted at that, a smoky, acrid breath. "You want no great feasts and celebrations for your great deeds?"

"I wouldn't say no to some nice baked potatoes," Bilbo had to admit a little wistfully, thinking back to his last, sad meal in Bagend – the one Dwalin had stolen from him.

"You don't want power? The Ring can give it to you, you know. Power to control the minds of others. Power to _rule_."

That last word seemed to echo through the entire hall, bouncing off the walls, growing more terrible with each echo. Bilbo made a face at it and at Smaug. "Why would I want to rule anyone?" Bilbo asked. "I've met two kings and many leaders and they're all a varyingly unpleasant lot and I think that has quite a bit to do with the power they have – it goes to their heads." He harrumphed and then considered. "Well, Elrond wasn't half bad, but we had to escape even his house."

"Elrond," Smaug repeated with a sneer. "The One Ring of Power, the Grey Wizard, and now Elrond the Half Elven? Your story is starting to seem more and more interesting by the moment."

Bilbo eyed him for a moment and shook his head. "It has been," he paused to look for a word, "a long year."

Smaug snorted at that. "And at the end of it, it brought it to me," he said and lifted his head, taking a deep, resounding breath. "It's the day after Durin's Day, isn't it? A Dwarvish new year."

"I guess," Bilbo murmured, shaking his head. The Hobbit year ended and started midwinter, and for a moment he wondered longingly if Dwarves celebrated their new year like hobbits did. He missed the fireworks now – even the ones made by old Bolger, while not as splendid as Gandalf's, were a sight to behold. But maybe fireworks and caves did not go too well together.

Smaug was quiet for a while, staring over the coils of his long tail at the Ring in its crater of cooling gold. Bilbo waited tensely for him to do something, to say something, but when the dragon merely laid there, thinking, he let his attention wander. He swayed a little in the silence, feeling more than a little faint now. The pain of his burned feet and the thin, smoky air was getting to him and after a while his eyes began to droop listlessly, not really looking at anything.

"What to do about this?" Smaug finally murmured through his teeth, gazing narrowly at the One Ring of Power. "The Darkness moves again. It has for a while now, creeping out of its barrows and crevices and over hills and mountains. This place…" the word trailed off into a sigh that seemed to come from all around Bilbo, "has been secure, but for how long? Ungoliant's descendants creep over everything, Orcs and goblins move further and further south and further and further west. Trolls too, you say. And now the Dwarves of Erebor are here, to reclaim their homeland at the behest of the Grey Wizard. What else, thief? What else is out there?"

Bilbo shook his head. "Gundabag Orcs," he said, rubbing at his ankle in a faint attempt to stop the pain from spreading further up his legs. "Led by Azog the Defiler. And there's a sickness in Greenwood, that I don't think is just the spiders," he paused for a moment. "And I head Gandalf say something about… Morgul."

Smaug hissed and the quietness of it was somehow more startling than the loud rage from earlier. "What of Morgul?" the dragon asked. "What did the Grey Wizard say?"

Bilbo shrugged. "There was another wizard, Radagast. I was, uh, spying, maybe, a little bit," he took a breath. "Radagast found a blade. Gandalf called it a Morgul Blade. I don't really know what it means, but he seemed… nervous."

"It is the art of the Diseased Steel," Smaug said. "Fashioned by the Witch King of Angmar. Minas Morgul was his tower, and there he made weapons that poisoned the soul itself, and rotted the body from inside. The Morgul Blades were the weapons of the Nine Wraiths of Sauron – his most powerful slaves. Nine Kings of Men poisoned by the Nine Rings given to mortal men, doomed to die – and not."

"And… not?" Bilbo asked, blinking.

"The sweet lies that imprisoned them – immortality and eternal life," Smaug said and chuckled, dark and deep in his chest. "Trapped they were, somewhere between life and death, and so they could carry Morgul Blades without fear. You cannot kill what isn't alive, and cannot rot what is already ruined. Where was the Morgul Blade found?"

 "I… don't know," Bilbo shook his head. "I just heard the name and saw Gandalf shudder at it – that's all I know."

"Well – it matters not. A Morgul Blade means that the Wraiths are back also," Smaug said and finally lifted his head. "And only one being could call them back."

"The… Dark Lord?" Bilbo asked hesitantly.

Smaug didn't answer, rising to his feet and glaring at the Ring. "Spiders and Goblins and Ring Wraiths – and now this," he said and spat a gust of flames at the Ring – a show of distain rather than another attempt to destroy it. "He is back, and He is starting to consolidate power again – and as He grows stronger, the Ring starts to move. It has a will of its own – it wouldn't have come to you if it had chosen not to. And here it is, and still it whispers to me. It's trying… to get to its Master."

Bilbo hesitated, looking between Smaug and the Ring. "And if it does?"

Smaug glanced at him and bared his teeth. "Then, thief… there will be _war_ like none you can imagine."

Bilbo shuddered a little and looked down, not at the Ring but at the gold all around them. It was still smoking from Smaug's rather excessive attempts to destroy the Ring. If it was truly as terrible as Smaug said, and if dragon fire, which was supposed to melt everything, hadn't even made a dent in it… "Is there nothing we can do? Is there really no way to destroy the Ring?" Bilbo asked wearily.

Smaug didn't answer, but his eyes narrowed and his pupils contracted. "We?" he then said, and in that single word rode the implication of an arched eyebrow. " _We_?"

"Well," Bilbo started and stopped, swallowing. "Um, well, that is… I mean… Uh…"

The dragon snorted a smoky breath at him, half annoyance and half amusement. " _We_ indeed. A dragon," Smaug snarled. "And a thief foolish enough to try and steal from his hoard – against the forces of Darkness. That would be a fine tale indeed."

Bilbo considered. "It would," he said, because it sounded like just the sort of tale to get your blood pumping, the kind of tale he would've loved to listen to as a young faunt. "It would be the greatest tale ever told."

Smaug looked a little taken aback by that. "Would it?" he asked, the ruff of horns flaring out and slanting back as if uncertain. He settled on snorting at Bilbo with disgust, but there was a thoughtful look about his scaly face now, and when he looked at the Ring it was with contemplation. "And what would I get out of it?" he murmured. "A loss of my hoard and shelter and home," he snarled. "Lost to the Dwarves. Ha!"

"To be fair – you stole it from them," Bilbo commented and winced back when Smaug snarled at him. "You did, and I hear it was a great and terrible battle too. All know the stories."

"Oh, I know," Smaug said with derision. "And they all end with _and one day we will reclaim our homeland and slay the beast where he lies_."

Bilbo grimaced a bit at that. "Well," he said and shrugged. It was pretty much spot on. "You did start it," he then said.

Smaug snarled and said nothing, the end of his tail swinging about angrily again. Bilbo eyed his profile for a moment and then looked down at his feet. Thorin and the others were waiting at the hidden door for him to return with news, and he couldn't walk. Worse yet, he hadn't found the Arkenstone – Smaug had woken first, and oh so angry. And now he was… what? What was he doing? He didn't know.

"If the Ring is so terrible, and you don't want to be enslaved by it – and I don't want there to be a great war of any kind," Bilbo said. "Then… can't we destroy it? Is there no way?"

" _We_ again," Smaug grumbled and cast a slanted look at him. "Would you, thief? Would you destroy the Ring?"

Bilbo shrugged. "If I knew how," he said. "Yes. It's a useful little trinket to be sure, but if it is so evil and so dangerous… then yes. Of course."

Smaug eyed him narrowly. "Down past the Greenwood and the entirety of Rhovanion," he said slowly. "Over the Brown Lands and through Dagorlad, down and over the Ered Lithui, the Mountains of Ash. There is the land of Mordor… where the shadows lie. There is a mountain there – Orodruin, Mount Doom, that is hotter than Dragon Fire." Smaug paused, his eyes narrowing even further. "That was where the One Ring of Power was forged. And it is there… where it can be unmade, in the fires of Mount Doom."

Bilbo swallowed dryly, and even sitting down his knees felt faint and his feet ached at the thought of it. "That sounds like a long way," he said faintly.

"Oh, it is," Smaug sneered. "Too long for such a little thing."

"Not too long for a dragon, though, is it?" Bilbo commented, arching his eyebrows.

Smaug snorted in answer and didn't say anything for a while, staring first at Bilbo, then at the Ring and then at the great golden hoard of Erebor. He lifted himself up and slowly spread out his wings, stretching with his wing joints crackling, the spikes of his head and spine flaring out. It was very impressive.

"Greatest story ever told, you say," the dragon murmured and it echoed deeply in the throne hall. "The Thief and a Dragon, against the host of Darkness. That would be a great story, wouldn't it?"


	2. Chapter 2

"And that would be the dragon," Balin said darkly as the ground shook under their feet and the Lonely Mountain rumbled with distant roars.

Thorin gritted his teeth, glaring at the entryway into Erebor, and not for the first time in this quest, the private thought of how utterly hopeless this quest was rekindled in his heart. It had been hopeless since Gandalf had sat across from him and it had been hopeless when they'd sang together in the Shire and it had remained hopeless through all that had gone wrong. Only, until now, there had been hope.

Hope in the eyes of his kin, when they spoke of Erebor, of the gold, of the dragon, slain. Hope for Kíli and Fíli to experience the life their kin had led in the shelter of the mountain. Hope for his people to rise from the squalor they'd been forced to, and the near servitude they experienced at the hands of other Dwarven clans that still held onto their better positions, their wealthier mines, their stronger fortresses. Hope in Bilbo Baggins who, to the very end, had wanted to help them get their home back because he saw them homeless and thought it was the worst fate one could have.

The dragon roared in the distance, and Thorin felt no hope what so ever.

"Thorin," Balin said, serious and imploring all at once.

"Give him more time," Thorin said, because he'd given Bilbo Baggins up for dead before – in the shadow of the Misty Mountains with no sight of him, no hope then either. They'd lost the sight of Master Baggins amidst rampaging Goblins, after all. How could anyone, let alone a single, small hobbit, survive that? And how easy it was to veil that hopelessness in derision, he still regretted that, but then it had been better to believe the worst than accept the inevitable. Let him be a traitor rather than dead in the eyes of Thorin's kin and in the hearts of his Sister-sons. Let their hearts be so hardened rather than broken, that was what he'd thought. And then he'd been wrong.

But this time there was nowhere for the Hobbit to go but to the dragon, so he couldn't pretend that the Hobbit had run off rather than died. Not that at this point anyone would've believed him if he said so – Bilbo Baggins did not run, and they all knew it. So, if the Burglar could not return, then death would've claimed him and for all that Kíli and Fíli weren't there, Thorin could not speak it. "Give him time," he said instead of _he must be dead by now._

"Time to do what?" Balin asked with disbelief. "Get himself killed?"

Thorin glanced at him and then at the mountain, hopelessness beating at his heart. As if Master Baggins could be anything but dead, now. "Balin," he said, because he was a king and what a king felt he never admitted out loud. "Give him time." And give me time to figure out what to do next, because if Master Baggins could not steal to the dragon's side unnoticed, what hope did the rest of them have? There was no chance of them fighting and killing the dragon, and less so of getting into the mountain unnoticed. If the Halfling could not get the Arkenstone without being detected, and he obviously had not…

Then, the noise stopped and the dragon quieted. They listened tensely to the rumbling of the mountain and there was nothing – whatever rage had rouse Smaug from his slumber had quelled. Mr. Baggins must be dead then, thought Thorin, and squeezed his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. Now what? Now what could they do? Go to the dragon, and feel its inevitable wrath.

"I can still hear it," Nori, who had his ear and his little listening glass pressed to the mountain side. "It still rumbles. Smaug is talking, I think."

"Talking with Bilbo!" Ori cried, stepping closer. "What are they saying?"

"You think I can hear it all the way here?" Nori asked, and shook his head. "I can just barely tell that Smaug is talking at all. Or maybe he's belching, I don't know. It's…" he frowned and nestled his ear firmer against the glass. "It's droning on and on, so I think he is speaking."

Thorin exchanged looks with Balin. "Talking," he muttered with disbelief. "Master Baggins is… _talking_ with Smaug."

"If anyone could," Dwalin muttered, fisting a hand around his axe grip and relaxing. "All talk, that Hobbit."

"There is power in well placed and well thought out discourse," Balin said, though he too was frowning. "If Bilbo has somehow managed to get Smaug to talk to him, rather than roast him alive, then…"

Thorin shook his head and paced a few steps to the left and then a few more to the right. Talking with the dragon – if anyone could, it would be Bilbo Baggins. He seemed to have a way with words and talking himself – and others – out of trouble. He'd done so with Trolls and Lakemen, and probably with Goblins too in the Misty Mountains for all they knew.

See, you old fool, Thorin thought to himself. Gave him up for dead again and there he is – having a chat of all things with a _dragon_.

"What do we do?" Ori asked nervously. "Do we go in there?"

"We wait," Thorin said. "And let Master Baggins do what he does best." Which was, by his reckoning, getting out of the trouble others had put him in. "Nori, keep an ear about – keep track of pauses and breaks when Smaug is speaking."

"That's when Bilbo's talking, right," Nori said and snapped his fingers at Ori. "Get paper."

"Right, right," Ori said, and dug out roll and ink and quill to write with.

Not that keeping track of the duration and rhythm of the discussion would do much help – but it would keep the company occupied while they waited. Thorin nodded as everyone concentrated on keeping track of the distant talk and trying to figure out what might be discussed in it, and went back to pacing.

"Talk won't stall his death for long," Dwalin said under his breath. "I say we go in there and slay Smaug while he's distracted with the hobbit."

Thorin shook his head at that. Dwalin had been too young when Erebor had been lost and couldn't remember Smaug fully – sneaking up to attack a dragon wouldn't actually do much, when there was no way to pierce its hide. They had no black arrows and no Wind-Lances to shoot them from, and even the old weapons of Dale wouldn't do them much good. Smaug remaining asleep within the mountain had been their best chance. Getting the Arkenstone and calling on the Seven Kingdoms had been their best chance. With armies, they could've done it. With only a handful of Dwarves…

"We wait," Thorin said again and glared at the ground.

They waited, Nori and Ori counting the distant lines of dialogue, Dori making increasingly gloomy conjecture about what might be discussed with Bombur and Dwalin while Balin frowned worriedly. Only Bifur seemed restful, but that was mainly because he wasn't even paying attention. And meanwhile, Thorin paced, and paced, and paced.

"They've stopped," Nori announced after a long break in the discussion. "Smaug is not talking anymore."

And they waited again, staring hopefully at the entrance, waiting to see the Hobbit return to them. Minutes passed and the night grew ever darker – the moon had started to set. And there was no sight of Master Baggins. Thorin grit his teeth, glaring at the shadows and tried to ignore the looks the others gave him, slowly growing worried, growing anxious. Soon, they wouldn't be able to wait anymore. A decision had to be made.

Go in and risk all their lives for, what? For the Mountain and the Arkenstone – or for the Hobbit? Or wait here and do nothing, and give Master Baggins up for dead, the Mountain forever lost? So long their journey had been, and so hopeless, and yet here they were, the back door to Erebor itself laid open before them, and yet…

"Thorin," Balin said, staring at him grimly. "Do we go in?"

Thorin took a breath. Everyone was staring at him now. Everyone was ready to follow his command. They trusted him, even here, and with this, they trusted him. Hopeless, he thought and opened his mouth to give the command.

And under them the mountain trembled as if with an earth quake while inside Smaug began to rage again.

 

* * *

 

Bard kept an eye to the sky as he stood by the window, tense and ready. Behind him, the Dwarven prince malingered, having collapsed into unconsciousness while their healer did what he could for the Dwarf's injured leg. It looked more than slightly infected – too long without proper treatment, apparently, and the arrowhead had been stuck inside, which the prince had never mentioned. The healer had had _words_ to say about that.

There wasn't anything Bard could do for Kíli though, so he kept an eye to the sky instead. So far, however, there had been no sight of a dragon and every second spent not seeing the Firedrake was a precious one to be treasured in Bard's books. While some naïve hope inside him kept insisting that the Dwarves could fight the dragon and kill it and they'd never see its hide in Lake-town… Bard wasn't much of an optimist, really.

They'd see the dragon before the morning would dawn, he was sure of it.

"It's done," the Dwarven healer said and there was a click of metal against wood. Bard turned and saw the bloody arrowhead the Dwarf had dug out of his princes' leg. "It's still infected and we need herbs I hardly think we will find in Lake-town, but for now, it's looking a little better. Bofur, the hot water…"

Bard watched for a while as the dwarves carefully cleaned the dark haired Dwarf prince's leg, to reveal the cuts the healer had made to get the arrowhead out. The wound hadn't putrefied, but the flesh was angry red and obviously swollen around the wound, so it was obviously only a matter of time.

"What do you need?" Bard asked. "There are markets here for the strangest of things – we might yet find what's necessary."

The healer gave him a look that was full of doubt. "Elgaran to start with," he said, and began to bind the wound with cloth. "To combat whatever toxins the Orcs coat their arrows with. And Alfirin, to fight the infection. And more besides, but those might save his life yet."

Neither name said much to Bard and he shook his head. "I don't know –"

"Star Red and Never Fade," the blond prince said quickly, glancing between him and the healer and then at his sickly brother. "The first has red flowers, shaped like a star and the other has yellow ones, along the stalk."

Bard frowned. "Those I know," he said slowly. "Edda sells flowers on Midyear Day and I think I've seen both of them. I know she stores them, and she sells other herbs besides if you know how to ask right. Will they do, dried?"

"Aye, they might, if dried properly," the healer said with a frown and looked at the unconscious prince. "I need to have a look myself to see for sure. Fíli, look after your brother, keep him cool and watch the leg – if it starts swell badly, come find me." That said, he turned to Bard. "Well then, bargeman, show me the herb seller."

"It is the middle of the night" Bard said, shaking his head. "She won't thank us for waking her."

"Every moment we waste the wound grows worse – by morning, no sum of Alfirin will save him from putrefaction," the healer said severely. "We go now, or we doom Kíli to lose his leg if not his life – by morning, I will have to cut it."

Bard hesitated, glancing at the window. No sign of dragon yet, no light in the sky. Edda would have his hide for waking her this late – or this early, however one looked at the time. But… Edda's anger would be a lesser evil, than what the Dwarves would dish out should their prince grow worse. "I hope you have coin," he said and grabbed his bow, just in case.

They made it just out to the wooden streets of Lake-town, when in the distance they could hear the roar. It was faint and distant and echoing, but unmistakeable. Though Bard had never heard it, he had never heard anything like it either, and if nothing else had ever made such a noise then it could only be one thing.

"The dragon," Bard said as they listened to the distant roars that echoed over the lake. How loud it must be, up close, for it to reach this far. "It's awake. And coming."

"It will come when it will come," the healer said darkly. "Nothing we can do to stop it. The herbs, Lakeman."

Bard hesitated, indecisive. True enough, there was nothing they could do to stop the dragon from coming and from burning Lake-town down to the water line. But there was a chance – if the stories held true, if Girion had made a chink in Smaug's armour, there was a chance.

"Lakeman!" the healer snapped at him. "If you won't show me, then at least tell me where your herb woman is!"

"Down three piers and one to the left – the house with the red door, window boxes with plants, and flower pots on the roof," Bard said quickly. "Don't… tell her I sent you," he added and then turned around to see if he could find a quick vantage point to see the oncoming dragon.

He ended up scaling the wall of a nearby building – Tery's house, the man would not be happy about him leaving footprints on his window sill, but never mind that now. Bard climbed his way to the rooftop and there he could see over most of Lake-town. The Lonely Mountain was but a distant shadow in the darkness, barely visible in the faint light of the setting moon.

But he could see flashes of light at the roots of the mountain, and he could hear the dragon. He could almost imagine it, what it was doing.

Smaug had, according to the old stories, collapsed the gates of Erebor when he'd entered and taken the mountain, sealing the mountain to bar anyone entrance. Ever since Thorin Oakenshield and most of his company had left, Bard had dreaded it – the sound of Smaug tearing the entrance open, tearing his way out of the mountain. Of course, he couldn't hear it now, the distance was far too great, but he imagined as if he could. Smaug was coming out.

The Dwarves had not killed the dragon.

Bard took a breath and then another, and for a moment he felt such fury that it froze him to his feet – anger at the greed of Dwarves that they would bring this upon them for nothing but gold. No better than the Master of Lake-town, utterly ignorant and uninterested in the suffering of others in their selfish, foolish quest. The Dwarves had failed, the dragon was awake and angry, and now Laketown would bear the price.

He wondered for a moment if the Dwarves were dead. He hoped they were dead.

And then Smaug roared in triumph, and took flight, a terrible swift shadow over the moon lit clouds, rising higher in a few powerful wing beats. Taking out his bow, Bard watched, despairing of the speed of the beast. It would take it no time at all to fly over and to Lake-town. There, it would feast on the people, and burn everything in its way, like it had done with Dale, like it had done with the great forests that had once surrounded Erebor.

And Bard thought with desperation, that he should've put his children on his barge and had them leave the town. Bain could have managed the barge, easy enough. He was a strong lad, and skilled enough, he could've steered his sisters and himself to safety. They could've made it. They could have been _safe_.

But instead… instead Bard had put them to bed. He'd told them to go to sleep. He'd hoped that there was time.

Now he waited, tense, watching the shadow in the sky. Waited for the doom to come – and his faint, hopeless hope that perhaps there was a scale missing and perhaps his arrow might find it…

Only, the dragon never came. It circled the mountain, roaring at it furiously, and with each circle around the mountain top it rose higher and higher into the air. As Bard watched, it gained altitude and then it turned to leave the Lonely Mountain behind. But it did not turn to Lake-town at all, no. Instead it set its sights dead south.

And so, Smaug the Terrible flew right past Lake-town without paying it a single touch of attention – leaving the Lonely Mountain behind.

 

* * *

 

Thorin all but tore his way into the mountain, leaving his kin behind in his haste to get inside and to see what had befallen their Burglar. To see Smaug take wing had been bad enough, but to see it _leave_ without so much as a proper flame… What in Mahal's name could've happened?

Smaug had broken through the sealed gates, that much was obvious. The gates the dragon himself had sealed, so long ago. For a moment, Thorin had been sure the Hobbit had either given them away and Smaug was coming to get them from the secret door himself – or that the dragon had been enraged and had been intending to take that rage out on Lake-town. But it had not. Instead it had taken flight – and then it had _fled_ , neither looking for them, nor heading for Lake-town. As far as they could see from their awkward vantage point, the dragon had just flown off.

It was horrible and exhilarating all at once, to be inside Erebor, to run through those long forgotten and yet oh so familiar halls. Everything echoed with memory and fondness and yet there was a back beat of desperation. Thorin couldn't for the life of him imagine what could have occurred – what could have transpired to drive the dragon _away_? What had the Burglar done? What could he have done?

The greater part of his desperation was due to the Arkenstone – because that was the only explanation he could come up with himself. That Smaug had learned of their purpose from the Burglar and then out of nothing but sheer petty malice had taken the Arkenstone _away_. And then, the Arkenstone hidden, it would return and reseal the mountain, smug with spite.

He had to find out before Smaug got back – then maybe he could get his people out of the mountain before Smaug's return, and the quest would be done – and could be officially called a failure. He could take his kin away, back to the west and to the Blue Mountains where they'd be _safe_ …

Thorin stopped, as a corridor gave away to a great, grand staircase and suddenly he was in the throne room – and open before him was the great treasure of Erebor. The gold that had been little more than a distant memory, grown both greater and fainter with time, was all there, glowing and glittering in the darkness, a warm sea of wealth. Literally warm – still glowing with actual, very real heat.

The dragon had breathed fire on the gold – on quite a bit of it. There were whole chunks of it that had been melted and malformed – to the side he could see an enormous ring of melted gold, like an impact scar of a falling star. He'd seen one, when he'd been a near century younger, and the crater made in gold was very much like it. What on earth had Smaug done there?

On it's own his mind conjured up the image of Bilbo Baggins there, in the centre of that crater, clothes and flesh seared off his bones until his bones too melted away.

Shuddering, Thorin looked away and then around for any sign of Master Baggins, any sign of _answers_. And if not that, then the Arkenstone. When he saw nothing immediately, he headed forward and waded into the gold, hoping to find _something_ , just a shred of evidence, anything that might make sense of this. Why were there melted chunks of gold everywhere? It wasn't just the crater, but all around it – half melted coins and jewellery that by the looks of it had just… dribbled down on the rest.

Looking up Thorin half expected to see gold melted into the ceiling for some reason, but there was only stone up there. Stone and lingering smoke.

"Thorin!" he could hear Balin's voice coming from the stairs and turned to look. "Thorin, what are you doing?"

Thorin looked around himself. He was knee deep in the gold. "I can't find any sign of Master Baggins!" he called back to the others. "Everyone, look around, see if you can – " he stopped as his eyes landed on a shred of cloth, not far from the crater in the gold. Quickly, he waded to it and picked it from amidst the gold. Blue velvet and old lace – a piece of the coat Master Baggins had received in Laketown. "Balin," he called and held it up.

The others joined him and they all looked at the torn piece of cloth in various stages of dismay and grief.

"It's been torn off," Dori said suddenly, and took it from Thorin's hand with an audacity he usually didn't dare to show. "See, here?" he pointed. There was an angle in the edge of the torn fabric. "First along the weave in this direction – then the other. This sort of tear doesn't happen accidentally – it's been done by hand. Deliberately."

"Master Baggins intentionally tore his coat?" Thorin asked. "Why?"

"Better question is how," Dwalin said, peering at the crater in the gold, which Bifur was poking at with his lance. "How did he have the time to do it – how did Smaug let him?"

"Thorin," Balin said urgently, and pointed. "Look."

Thorin turned, and his eyes widened. There, resting on a broken pillar not far from them rested the Arkenstone. It was shimmering faintly under their astonished eyes, its light just as ethereal as it had been long ago – and so beautiful it was, that it took Thorin a moment to notice what Balin was really pointing at. Under the Arkenstone there was a piece of parchment – a familiar piece.

"The map," Thorin muttered and hurried over to it, and the Arkenstone. His hand rested over the stone reverently for a moment before he picked up the map from beneath it. "I didn't realise Master Baggins still had it," he murmured and looked it over. And just like Balin must've suspected, there was writing on the back side – written, judging by the looks of it, with a piece of charcoal.

The note was very short and written with a shaky hand. After reading it over trice, Thorin cleared his throat and, still disbelieving of the content, turned to read it out loud to the others who heard with equal incredulity and disbelief.

 

> To Thorin and Company
> 
> Apologies. I shan't see you reclaim Erebor. Something terribly urgent came up and I'm going with Smaug now on another Quest. I suspect I shan't return either. Smaug took a lot of the gold and I took some armour for myself, so consider my share accounted for.
> 
> I wish you all the best.
> 
> Bilbo Baggins
> 
> Ps. Tell Gandalf it wasn't Courage at all but something Golden and Terrible and Precious.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changed a couple of things from the movie canon here - namely, Kíli was shot with a normal albeit poisoned arrow because what even was that Morgul shaft nonsense, and Tauriel and Legolas aren’t anywhere near by because I just don’t feel like dealing with that at all in this story, as it has nothing to do with anything happening here. Also, my version of Thorin is probably not in character at all, haha.
> 
> (And yes I'm continuing this. I got many plans. Here's hoping the inspiration holds.)


	3. Chapter 3

"Tell me your tale, thief."

Bilbo lay half collapsed on the mound of rock Smaug had decided to take a break on, every bone in his body aching. He'd known, objectively, what a flight was like. The short flight on the back of Eagles had given him some warning as to the force of the wind and the bite of the cold air and what a struggle it could be, to stay on the back of such a creature as it flew. A dragon was no eagle however, and Smaug had certainly not made it easy for him.

"My tale," Bilbo grunted, pushing the hood of his stolen cloak off and trying to stretch out the kinks from his shoulders. "All of it, or just the interesting parts? Because there are many uninteresting ones."

"Considering your grasp of history and the significance of truly important things, I believe I will be the judge of what is and isn't interesting," Smaug said and there was a tremendous thud as he released his burden, dropping the great shield of gold to the ground.

Bilbo looked towards it, half amused and half dismayed. In Erebor, Smaug had crafted as much gold together as he could manage in such a short time, melting thousands and thousands of golden coins together to form what had in the beginning been a shapeless mound of precious, mangled metal. Then he'd worn it on his back and let it mould on his spines, like a shapeless shield. It had cooled and hardened as they flew and now it was a rather like a bowl or a boat of gold, enormous and fairly ridiculous.

But what would a dragon be without his gold? If Smaug could've, he would have brought all of it no doubt – but great though he was, the golden hoard of Erebor was far greater, and the weight of it would've smothered him had he tried to carry it. The awkward shield was but a fraction of it, but Bilbo suspected that even so it was perhaps a little too much weight for Smaug – hence their breaks every now and then.

In either case, having to _sit_ on the thing was beyond awful. It was cold and hard and completely uncomfortable. And they'd flown a long, long way too; leaving the Lonely Mountain and the Long Lake behind them in a flash. Having followed the river most of the way, there'd been water a plenty whenever they'd landed, but there was something that was sorely lacking in their quest so far.

"I don't suppose I could have a bite to eat first?" Bilbo asked. "I ache and I'm weary and my stomach rumbles, and tales are not for those with empty stomachs."

Smaug glanced at him with annoyance. "And you think my stomach is full, after a century of sleep?" he asked with a snort and stretched out his wings. "And such a ruckus you put up when I wished to dine on that insipid town on the waves. Mark my words, thief, the first village we see, I will _devour_."

"Then you may carry the Ring yourself all the way back to Mordor, and enjoy _its_ tales," Bilbo said, narrowing his eyes. "I will not stand by and have you kill more people. It is simply not done."

"Oh, but it is," Smaug said and bared his teeth in what Bilbo was starting to figure out was a simile of a smile – a very mean one. "And it is done very easily too, nigh effortlessly."

"I would still rather not have you do it, all the same," Bilbo said and cast a look at the golden, amorphous shield. "You have all the money you need to buy your food, you know – a small chip off that will buy you a handsome cow or… dozen," Bilbo snorted. He wasn't so sure about the worth of gold in these parts, but in Hobbiton, a single golden coin from Erebor's hoard would've been enough for two or three nice cows. Gold wasn't very common in the Shire. "It is heavy, isn't it not?"

"It is mine," Smaug snarled at him. "I will not part with a single _bit of it_."

Bilbo gave him a look. "Well, if you wish to carry it all across Middle Earth," he said. "But still, it would be far easier, I think, to buy food than to steal it – stealing things will only bring the wrath of those who own it upon you."

"You would know, _thief_ ," Smaug sneered.

"I would know – and funnily enough, not stealing from you kept me alive!" Bilbo said and then with a groan fell to lie on his back on the grass. "Oh, I ache all over," he grunted. He'd prepared as well he could, taking a hooded cloak with fur around the shoulders, and as light armour as he could find, and yet the flight had still been cold and brutal. Well, if nothing else, it made him almost forget his feet, for a while. Almost.

"That would be another great story, don't you think?" Bilbo asked then. "A dragon that swoops down from the sky to eat and burn everything in sight – that's a tale told a million times! Everyone knows it. But have you heard of a dragon that buys things? A dragon in a market place," he laughed feebly. "Have you heard that one? Because I have not."

"Because it has never happened," Smaug muttered with disgust. "What kind of _dragon_ would give gold away for something he could simply take?"

"A modern one?" Bilbo asked hopefully. "One looking to make new and interesting tales."

"Tch," was Smaug's answer to that. "Your tale, thief. I would I hear it."

"I have a name, you know – and I haven't stolen much anything," Bilbo complained. "Except the One Ring. And the Dwarves from King Thranduil's dungeons. And, well, other things, I suppose," he stopped before he got ahead of himself and when Smaug growled quietly at him, he cleared his throat. "Fine, my story then. Hmm…"

Staring up at the starlit sky, with Smaug's great form settling to lie on the grass beside him, Bilbo considered. How to put the tale of a Hobbit in a way that would interest a dragon? "In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit…"

Bilbo had never considered himself much of a wordsmith. Oh he wrote the occasional letter and dabbled in poetry same as any other Hobbit who enjoyed such acts, but he'd never really applied himself to it with much fervour. He preferred hearing stories and reading books over making them himself. But along the quest he had had to spin several tales out of nowhere – for the Trolls and for the Elves, for the gangly creature down in the Misty Mountains, even for Beorn in his great hut. And of course the Dwarves were nothing if not likely to sing and spin a tale – it made the miles pass by far quicker than silence did. So he had some practice.

And there was truly something about telling stories to _dragons_. Smaug made an interesting audience too, interjecting here and there to ask questions before settling in to just listen, grumbling occasionally under his breath at the mention of Dwarves. Smaug asked him to repeat any poem and song he could remember which Bilbo found particularly interesting – especially since he himself was by now well familiar with Smaug's fondness for grand recitations.

"The bells were ringing in the dale and men they looked up with faces pale, the dragon's ire more fierce than fire laid low their towers and houses frail," Smaug repeated with great satisfaction, humming low in his throat. "It's not quite right, not quite right at all, but I do like it. Do you remember the rest?"

"I do, but – how is it not right?" Bilbo asked, blinking and lifting his head to look at him. "Isn't that pretty much exactly what happened?"

"From their perspective perhaps," the dragon answered, resting his chin on top of the golden shield and closing his eyes. "I can't say I was particularly angry that day – for me, it was just a day."

Bilbo stared at him for a moment and then let his head drop. Right, Smaug was a dragon after all – and who knew how many hoards he had taken over, how many people he'd driven from their homes, how many people he'd killed and eaten? With Smaug being so very near _cordial_ with him, it was strangely easy to forget that he was, in the end… a monster.

"Does it make you sad, thief?" Smaug asked with amusement. "Does it make you shiver to think it? How do the Dwarves tell it, then? The great beast comes from the sky to lay waste on their lives, killing and devouring without restraint, burning everything in his wake?"

Bilbo swallowed and shook his head. "I don't think it's… right," he said then. "Taking from others like that. Eating people. Eating anything that thinks and talks. It's not right."

"Right has nothing to do with it," Smaug answered. "Needs must. I had need, and it was for the Lonely Mountain."

"And you really couldn't have gone _anywhere_ else, taken over _any other_ place?" Bilbo asked sharply.

Smaug didn't answer for a while. "What other place?" he then asked, opening a single slit pupil eye and staring at him coolly. "My old fortress in Gundabad was safe for over a thousand years before the Orcs came – the Dol Guldur barely a hundred, before the spiders crept in, followed by worse things. Every cave from the Western Shores to the Eastern Deserts is crawling with goblins and Orcs – Ered Mithrin and the Grey Mountains are full of them, the Misty Mountains are infested by them, and Moria…" he grunted out a derisive laugh. "And between all of them there are Men and Elves and wherever those don't reside, there are _Dwarves_."

The dragon rumbled low in his chest in annoyance. "I could feel the Darkness spreading long before you came to me, thief. It started in the North, it started in the East, and it spread bit by bit to cover every safe corner in these parts. And this Middle Earth is growing smaller as its people multiply. There is very little space here for _dragons_ these days. Erebor was…" he trailed off and took a deep, resonating breath. "It has a value beyond its horde and I wanted it. Why, when everything was taken from me, should I not just take it?"

Bilbo stared at him in the growing darkness before with a groan pushing himself up, to sit. "You were in Gundabad?" he asked.

Smaug snorted at that. "I have been in many places," he rumbled. "Gundabad was my home perhaps the longest. It was different then – the mountains weren't so heavily infested. Now and again the mountain of Gundabad has been occupied by Orcs, but it was empty then – there weren't so many Orcs then. They had yet to multiply enough to spread, I suppose."

"I've heard about Gundabad, but… mostly only about how the Orcs come from there, like Azog. What is it like?" Bilbo asked carefully.

"It's a mountain," Smaug answered. "Amidst mountains. The Orc fortress is built in its shelter, rough and ugly and all together unpleasant. What makes the mountain a special place is that there is an ancient Dwarven fortress there, carved deep into the mountains – not unlike Erebor, but grander and far less wealthy. It is there where the forefather of Dwarves awoke – so for eons the Dwarves maintained its grandeur. It houses the finest Dwarven craftsmanship, barring perhaps the great halls of Khazad-dûm itself."

"I didn't know that," Bilbo murmured, frowning. "Strange. One would think the Dwarves would've mentioned it…"

"I suppose they don't talk about it these days – it must be oh so embarrassing for your _friends_ ," Smaug rumbled with amusement. "It's their holy place – and they lost it long ago, to all things Fell. Myself included, not that I think they ever knew it. Now it houses nothing but filth."

Bilbo hummed at that and then peered at Smaug. "But if it's far less wealthy than Erebor, then why did you…"

Smaug opened his eye again and looked at him. "Because, idiot thief, it was _secure_. It is a fortress, surrounded by mountains, far out of reach – a safer home you could not ask for," he said. "And believe me, if I had had the choice I would've remained there too."

"Funny how a dragon is so concerned with security," Bilbo commented, giving him an odd look. "I thought you were all about treasure and glory and such."

"Funny," Smaug repeated coolly. "Funny, is it? With Darkness like that Ring in this world, with its master quietly regaining power – with the shadows reaching out for every Fell thing to enslave them to its will… it is funny, to look for security? And all this without even mentioning that Dwarves, Men, and Elves all would kill me and all my kind without question, hunt us all into extinction, should they get the chance. That Shire of yours must be a light and lovely place indeed, when safety seems _funny_ to you."

The hobbit leaned back a bit at the viciousness of the words, shifting awkwardly where he sat. "I suppose it is," he admitted. "I've learned of many dark things in my quest with Dwarves, things the Shire never experiences. The world is an… awful place at times, and it surprises me at every turn. I suspect it will keep doing that, until I die."

Smaug didn't answer for a moment, staring at him. "You are of the Free People," he then said with disgust. "You are privileged in your utter and complete ignorance."

Bilbo swallowed at that, bowing his head. There was always a hint of jealousy when Smaug said that, _Free People_. Bilbo had heard it said many times – by Elves, and Dwarves, and Gandalf. The Free Peoples of Middle Earth. Strangely enough he hadn't really thought what it really meant, not before Smaug started throwing it at his face like an insult.

There were the Free People – and then there were those that were not.

"When the Ring is destroyed," Bilbo said slowly, smothering the urge to rest his hand over the pocket where the Ring sat. "Will everything be Free? Even Fell things?"

Smaug considered that quietly for a moment and then growled deep in his throat. "That, my dear thief in the shadows, remains to be seen."

 

-

 

Balin watched Thorin keenly as the Dwarven lord paced along the mounds of gold. He'd kept a wary and weary eye on Thorin ever since they'd entered the mountain, keeping him in his sights as much as he could. So far Thorin was obviously troubled and deep in thought – the sudden, strange loss of the dragon had shaken all their plans and fears asunder. Not that any of them knew what to think of Smaug's and _Bilbo's_ sudden… departure, but Thorin was taking it the worst – he had never been a Dwarf quick to adjust. But perhaps that was for the best.

Having Smaug alive and elsewhere – a constant looming threat in the distance – kept Thorin on his guard. Especially so since Bilbo had gone, by his own will judging by the looks of it, with the dragon. No one knew what to make of that, Thorin least of all. And that confusion and concern, Balin was certain, was keeping Thorin safe from the allure of the gold. He was too anxious to be drawn in by it.

"How much gold do you think Smaug took?" Ori asked quietly, eying the gold. Before the others had stationed themselves at the gates of Erebor, they had together lifted the melted chunks of treasure and piled them up in the ring of malformed gold. In them they could just about read what had occurred. Smaug, being a dragon, had melted as much gold as he could muster into a single, easily carried lump and had taken that with him.

"A ton, perhaps two," Balin said. "He couldn't have carried more. Gold is heavy, and even a dragon has a limits to how much it can carry."

"That's a lot of gold," Ori mused.

"In all of this? It's a drop in the bucket," Balin said. Privately he hoped that with the gold he'd taken, Smaug would've also taken the Curse of the Gold with him. Perhaps he had – so far, while the gold did fascinate and call to all of them as it did with all Dwarves, no one in their party seemed _enthralled_ by it. Perhaps Smaug stealing a portion of the gold had been a blessing, in a way.

"I still don't understand why Bilbo would… abandon us like that, though," Ori said quietly. "Why he would go with the dragon. I mean… what quest can you have, with a dragon?"

Balin hummed but made no guesses. They'd all thrown them around liberally in the past day, trying their best to figure it out, but so far no one had any true idea. What could Smaug have offered to Bilbo, they wondered? Why would Smaug need Bilbo, they asked? Balin, however, had his suspicion.

The post script in Bilbo's note held a clue that he did not quite understand, but he was sure it was the key to it. _Tell Gandalf it wasn't Courage_ it said, which alluded to a previous conversation between Bilbo and Gandalf, which meant that whatever occurred between Bilbo and Smaug had far reaching roots – roots, which reached back to a time before they'd entered the Greenwood. Something Bilbo had done or seen or learned was the catalyst to this mystery – that something from before made Bilbo join forces with Smaug.

It wasn't Smaug that had needed Bilbo for something, Balin suspected. It was Bilbo who had needed Smaug – and somehow, he'd gotten Smaug to agree. There had been something Bilbo had offered, something in his power to give to a dragon, that Smaug had considered more valuable than all – well, _most_ – of the gold in Erebor. Smaug had even left the Arkenstone, when he could have very well and very easily taken it with him.

There was something great at works there… but what? What could move a dragon to join a Hobbit on a quest?

Balin took a breath and then put it out of his mind. Wherever Bilbo was and whatever he was doing with Smaug was unimportant for now – they had enough troubles on their hands. "Thorin," he said and approached his king. "You've sent word to the Iron Hills, yes?"

"Hm," Thorin nodded and glanced at him. "Whether they get here in time is another thing."

Balin frowned, looking away from the gold. Erebor's doors were blown wide open – the front was utterly without defences after Smaug had broken his way out of the mountain. It would be only a matter of time before the Men of Lake-town would come and investigate and that, he knew, wouldn't end up peacefully for any of them. With that Master of theirs… it would take no amount of time before he would decide that it would be far easier and simpler to just over power the Dwarves of Erebor and _take_ what they now had.

"Should this come down to a struggle, and it might," Balin said. "We need aid that will be here now, and not perhaps in a few weeks. There are other concerns as well, when it comes to Erebor and its future, Thorin. You understand, right? Smaug is still alive out there doing who knows what and we have far more enemies than we can fight alone. Even where all the Dwarves in the Blue Hills here…"

Thorin took a breath and turned from the gold. His eyes were troubled and shadowed – but completely sane. "I understand," he said, his voice rough. "But what would you have me do, Balin? We are friendless here."

"Are we?" Balin said, arching his eyebrow. "Are we truly?"

Thorin eyed him with a frown and said nothing.

"There is Bard," Balin explained. "Heir of Girion. You saw just as did I the support he gets in Lake-town – not from that Master of theirs, but from the people. He is well loved and judging by his actions, for a good reason."

"We did not endear ourselves to Bard the Bargeman," Thorin snorted. "He was dead certain we'd bring only doom upon his people."

"Yet we did not," Balin said plainly – though they very well could have. Had Smaug not flown off with Bilbo in tow, the dragon might have very well attacked Lake-town. Mahal only knew why it had not. "And now we have our mountain back and we need to defend it – and in the future, we need to feed it. For Erebor to ever prosper again, it needs Dale. You know this – I know you do. I taught it to you myself."

"Tch, I remember," Thorin grumbled, running a hand over his face. "But Dale is in ruins, Balin."

"It can be rebuild," Balin answered, unimpressed with that argument. "Same as Erebor, same as Esgaroth, if necessary. And it might very well be necessary, if you wish for Erebor to support a growing population in the future. The decisions you make now, this very moment, will decide the future of these parts – and you need to decide _now_ , while it is still within your power to choose. Wait a day, and we might find Erebor beset by those that might've been allies, had you only acted sooner."

Thorin made a face and took a breath, obviously looking to argue. Balin cut him off before he could, however. "Smaug is still out there. Azog has been hunting us from across the Misty Mountains," he said firmly. "And now Erebor is reclaimed and soon the word will go out – all this wealth, and but a handful of Dwarves to defend it. We need allies, Thorin."

That said, Balin waited, staring at Thorin severely, watching him struggle with the decision. When Thorin's face finally set into firm lines of command, something within Balin unclenched.

"I'll send word to Fíli to be given to Bard," Thorin relented. "Hopefully there will be enough like-minded people in Lake-town that we might fight the rest back if necessary. But if this goes sour, Balin, and they turn on us…"

"We must take care to treat them with respect so that they won't," Balin said firmly. "If Dale is to be rebuilt, I have no doubt that Bard will be its new lord. You must treat him and his people as such."

"Fine, I take your point," Thorin said with a sigh and cast a look at the gold around them. "Still I'll feel much better once Dáin and his people get here."

"You and me both," Balin said, patting his shoulder. "But for now, Thorin, we must make do with what we have. And we're good at that."

Thorin sighed again. "That we are," he agreed and frowned at the gold. "This gold needs to be cleared out," he said. "This… mound and the idea of the dragon bathing in it is making me feel ill. Ori," he called to the young Dwarf. "Get your brothers. I want you to begin sorting and counting all this," he motioned at the gold. "There should be plenty of chests about."

"Yes, of course – right away," Ori said and hurried off to find Nori and Dori.

"In the meantime, I need to find myself another raven," Thorin muttered and then frowned. "I don't suppose… a raven would be able to catch up with a dragon."

Balin arched his eyebrow with surprise. "You wish to write to Bilbo?"

"I have questions – we all do," Thorin said and shook his head. "More than anything, I would prefer a warning if Smaug were to come back. If Master Baggins is still alive and in full possession of his sanity…"

Balin considered it. "Well, if any bird would be able to do it, it would be one of Ravenhill," he said and looked at his king with interest. "What do you think of this supposed quest Bilbo wrote of?"

Thorin pressed his lips firmly together. "They flew south," he said. "And while there are other places along the way… there is one place dead south of us that worries me and I have a feeling that is precisely where they are headed. What I cannot figure out is _why_."

What did a Dragon and a Hobbit have to do in Mordor?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm messing up the backstories and history here, mostly just because I just feel like it.


	4. Chapter 4

"And what of the dragon?"

Thorin didn't answer, his attention on his Sister-Sons. Fíli and Bofur were carrying Kíli in on a stretcher, and the youngest of Thorin's nephews was looking both better and worse. He'd known that Kíli was hiding a far worse injury than he let them know, but to see his face now, with it's sickly pallor and obvious pain, drove it fully in. The worry on Oin's face was even worse to behold. The wound must have become infected.

Balin cleared his throat beside him. "There is no accounting for the dragon," he said. "We don't know where it went but right now we're relatively certain it's not coming back – at least not immediately."

"And why, precisely, did it _leave_ in the first place?" Bard asked, gripping his bow nervously as he looked at the destroyed gates of Erebor. "What did your company do to drive the dragon away? Over a hundred years it has slept, and now it merely… flies off?"

"Believe me, lad, we're just as stumped about that as are you," Balin said grimly and shook his head. "It wasn't our doing, in any case. It was our burglar who got the dragon to leave."

"Your burglar?"

"Bilbo Baggins – the Halfling," Balin explained. "Light on his feet and easy to overlook, we hired him to sneak his way to the dragon's side as it slept and steal away the Arkenstone without awakening the beast – only, that isn't what happened. Smaug awoke – and then he and our burglar both left, together, on a quest according to the note Bilbo left us."

"What business Master Baggins and the dragon have, we have no knowledge of, and no amount of guessing will make it clearer," Thorin said, finally drawing his eyes from Kíli as he was carried inside and out of sight. "Master Baggins left us a parting note and the Arkenstone, so we can only hope that Smaug intends not to return. If the beast does return, there is a backdoor to the mountain we can use to escape if necessary. For now we intend to go forth as if the dragon is not returning, and that the mountain is ours to keep – and to defend."

"Defend from the Men of Lake-town," Bard said and shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't quite – your Halfling left with the dragon? How come Smaug didn't simply…?"

"Your guess is as good as ours," Balin said with a crooked, mirthless smile. "Smaug raged and roared and then they talked from what we could tell – and then, after hours of that, they left," he shrugged his shoulders. "Bilbo has always had a talent for speaking his way out of trouble, and if anyone could talk a dragon around it would be him, but… all we can do is make guesses as to what they talked about or how Bilbo convinced the dragon."

"For which we have no time," Thorin said, and looked at Bard severely. "You can't deny the greed of the Master of Lake-town, and those that follow him. Do you not think that should he see the mountain laid open and virtually defenceless, he would not take his chances in capturing it?"

Bard made a face. "No, I suppose I cannot," he admitted and looked over to the haphazard group of bowmen he'd convinced to come with him. Most of them had seen the dragon fly off without so much as by your leave, and it was more the curiosity than the promise of wealth that had drawn them here. Sneaking away from Lake-town in secret had been no small task, with the Master and his men on close watch, but they'd just about managed it. But true enough – it would be only matter of time before the Master came to demand his supposed due.

"So," Bard said. "What are your terms?"

"Help us defend the Lonely Mountain and our rightful claim to it, until our people get here," Thorin said, watching him closely. "And we will help you… rebuild Dale."

Bard stopped at that, and stared at him for a long while. They'd gone past Dale on their way to the front gates – and though it had not been the first time Bard had seen it, to get so close and to see the actual details in the stone work was different from the stolen, distant glances of the past. He'd let himself imagine for a moment what it must have been like – what it would be like, if rebuilt. But he had not dared to _hope_.

Theirs were not hopeful lands. Theirs were lands ruled by a dragon, that had withstood its desolation and been for so long worse for it. Anything grand was ruined and any hope for greatness stunted by the disaster that would no doubt befall it, should anyone dare to reach for it. Dale had been great and then it had been a ruin – the very idea of rebuilding it was, thanks to the very nature of these lands, logically followed by the thought of it falling to ruins again.

"Rebuild Dale," Bard repeated and the disbelief was heavy and hard in his voice.

"You know your history, don't you, Bowman?" Balin said knowingly. "Erebor and Dale existed and prospered in unison, and one couldn't have been as great as the other _without_ the other. Erebor will be re-settled and the kingdom renewed, there is no doubt of that. But for it to be great again, it needs Dale."

"I know my history," Bard said darkly. Wealth from Erebor and goods through Esgaroth and through Dale, that had been what had made these lands so great. "And I remember that the greatness of Erebor and Dale is what destroyed them."

"All the more reason to rebuild faster," Thorin said grimly. "And spend as much of the gold as quickly as we can."

"It will take a very great deal of wealth to heal these lands," Balin agreed. "Which will, by definition, lessen the golden hoard of Erebor greatly – which, in turn, will lessen the danger. For now, though, our greatest danger isn't in the resurfacing of the dragon. It's in Men and Orcs and whoever else might hear of the recapture of the Lonely Mountain – and its current vulnerability."

Bard hesitated, staring at them. He had not liked this group when he'd met them – he did not like Dwarves in general, no one in these lands did, really. They all knew the history, after all. But there was something different about this Company and in Thorin Oakenshield now. It wasn't that they'd recaptured the mountain, though, that could've only made Oakenshield more arrogant. No it was something else, something that cut deeper.

They'd been humbled.

No doubt they'd planned for great schemes and terrible fights and an ultimate battle with the dragon – they'd planned to _struggle_ for their mountain and for their goal. And no doubt they had, along the way – when Bard had met them, they had been a group near defeated by their journey. But here at the end of their quest, things had not turned out how they expected them to. There was no dragon to fight, no great battle to reclaim their home. Instead… the mountain had been given to them, an unexpected gift.

The dragon had flown off with the one they'd hired to steal from it. What must that do to the pride of a warriorlike Dwarf who'd expected to earn his prize through battle and with blood?

"Rebuild Dale," Bard said again. "And you have no knowledge of whether the dragon is returning or not?"

"Only guesses and conjecture, I'm afraid," Balin admitted. "Bilbo wrote that he would not return, however, and he and the dragon took a sum of the gold that he counted his share of the treasure and with that he severed his contract with us. So for now… we expect not to see them for a while at least."

"A while is not as good as never," Bard said darkly.

"It's the best we have," Thorin said just as darkly and looked at him. "Will you fight for us, Bard of Lake-town – will you help us defend Erebor?"

Bard did not like these odds, but… he'd met Bilbo Baggins and seen him to be a most sensible person amidst the company. And he's seen what was becoming of Lake-town. With each year it grew worse, with each year the Master grew greedier. To have Erebor and Dale back would change their lands forever. Was the risk of the dragon worth the hope?

He thought of his son and his daughters, and he could not help but dream a better life for them, than he himself had led.

"My men will need actual payment," Bard said then, glancing at them. "Promises of a better tomorrow won't feed their families now."

"You will be paid handsomely, have no fear of that," Thorin agreed and the relief was obvious on his face and in the way his shoulders relaxed. "Now. Let's talk about Erebor's defence."

 

* * *

 

Smaug rumbled with amusement beside Bilbo as they watched the people of the small village flee in terror. "I did tell you so," he commented. "And you knew it yourself, did you not? It is a tale told a million times after all. A dragon comes and people flee."

"Well, you can hardly blame them, can you?" Bilbo grumbled, wincing as he tried to stand in a way that did not put his weight on the blisters on the bottoms of his feet. Even bound in cloth it was painful and the blisters were healing badly. "With the way you swooped down and flew over the village – what were these people to think, hm? That wasn't exactly a _friendly_ way to approach a place, was it?"

"I am a dragon," Smaug scoffed, settling down to sit on the grass, talons flexing over the golden shield that sat at his feet, carefully watched guarded by Smaug's jealous gaze. "Dragons are not friendly."

Bilbo shook his head. "Well, we're here now and we might as well do what we came here to do," he said, pointing a finger at the dragon and trying not to hop from one painful foot to another quite so obviously. "A chip off the shield, Smaug. You promised."

"Must we? There aren't even any people here," Smaug said and craned his neck to look over to a nearby field, fenced off. There was a group of eight or nine cows there, which had fled to the furtherthest end and were giving wild looks at the dragons. "I could just… snatch a couple," the dragon said and gave the animals a toothy, hungry grin. "And no one would be the wiser."

"You'll find that they would be, and angry too, and then it would be the same old story, wouldn't it? A dragon comes and the dragon steals, and nothing what so ever changes," Bilbo snorted. "And it would be a horrible story to be sure, and it would have all these people talking for a while – but it wouldn't be an extraordinary story. Not at all like what we planned, would it, hm? So a chip off the shield, now."

"Tch," the dragon grumbled and looked down. "A small chip," he then said and then, very, very carefully, dug his talons into the shield at the very end of its rough oval shape. Being such soft metal, it wasn't at all difficult for the dragon to whittle a piece off it – but if Smaug truly thought it was a small one…

"That had better be enough," Smaug snarled and closed his wings around the golden shield protectively.

Bilbo picked up the fist-sized chunk of gold and weighed it in his hand. It must've been a pound or so of gold. It was probably enough to buy all the animals in the village, from cows to cats and dogs – and the whole village on top of them. "Yeah, it should be about enough I'd say," Bilbo said with a cough. "Right, hm. I'll just go and find myself something from the village and you, uh… three cows is enough for you, yes?" he said and then gave Smaug a look. "Since you don't want to spend more gold…"

"Three is fine," Smaug grumbled and cast him a look. "Am I paying for your food too?" he then demanded suspiciously.

"I have my own coin," Bilbo assured – which he did. He'd taken some from Erebor too, not that Smaug needed to know that. "I'll be right back. Three cows only, Smaug, we're agreed on that, yes?"

" _Fine_ ," the dragon snarled and then grabbed the shield in his talons and took flight. So far Bilbo had only experienced that on the dragon's back, he took a moment to watch him. There was no doubt that Smaug was very impressive – gleaming and glittering with sunlight with all the gems and coins that were still stuck between his scales, making him shine with gold. Never mind the simple fact that he was, in the end, a dragon, the most striking of all creatures on Middle Earth. A good eighty feet in length and with a wing span of half as long, it was impossible to not be amazed by him.

Seeing him terrorise the poor cows was a thing to behold, but Smaug was as good as his word in this at least. With couple of calculated swoops and wing beats, he'd parted the herd of cows in two – and one of them numbered at precisely three healthy looking beasts, which Smaug chased to the other end of the pen with great enjoyment.

"Perhaps I can teach the concept of fair trade to a dragon after all," Bilbo mused, and then awkwardly hobbled and hopped his way into the village proper, choosing the household which he thought owned the cows. With the people fled and the place deserted, it still felt a little like stealing, but it was as good as it would get, to take what he needed and leave gold behind for it. So he broke his way into the house and made his way to the kitchen there, marvelling how big everything was. Even after Dale and all the things there, the World of Men was still such a big, strange place with its high tables and chairs and cupboards held aloft and out of reach.

But it had been a hungry couple of days, and the largeness of everything could not hold his attention for long. Even with the Dwarves he hadn't spent such a long time without a bite to eat, and his belly was demanding satiation. So, try as he might to abstain, he couldn't deny himself a piece of recently baked bread and a slice of cheese which still sat on the high dining table, left there by the owners who'd fled from the dragon.

And good heavens, was it _good_. Made with darker wheat than the one grown in the Shire, it was the best thing Bilbo had ever tasted – and with a slice of thick, rich cheese on top, it very nearly had him in tears. There was no time to savour it, but savour it he did with every hungry bite and every quick, desperate swallow.

Then, with all the expertise of a hungry Hobbit, he turned to raiding the pantry. With a stolen table cloth for a satchel, he took bread and a full cheese wheel and a number of small, bitter looking apples and everything else he thought would keep during the journey, wrapping everything up as well as he could. He wasn't quite sure how long the flight would take yet. They'd covered quite a bit of ground in the last couple of days, with the miles speeding past, but according to Smaug it was a long, long way to Mordor and the flight over the mountains wouldn't be easy, so he was trying to plan as far a head as he could. A week's worth of food might be enough, until they saw another village, perhaps. He could only hope.

When he turned to leave, his awkward sack full to the brim, he looked around to find anything to write with, to leave some sort of bill of sale – but there was nothing in sight. In the end, he simply left the chunk of gold and a single Dwarven gold coin on the kitchen table and hoped that the master of the house would understand its meaning. It was, he had no doubt, worth far more than what they'd taken, but hopefully it would help soothe the fright caused by a dragon's unexpected visit.

Smaug was done with the cows by the time Bilbo had limped and winced his way back out and to the field. Bilbo was rather glad to see that he'd left little blood behind – perhaps he'd eaten them whole? He certainly had jaws big enough to swallow cows whole. "How was your meal?" Bilbo asked because, in the end, he was a Hobbit.

" _Lively_ ," Smaug rumbled with great satisfaction and looked at him. "I see you helped yourself to their belongings, thief," he then commented with amusement and leaned down to peer at Bilbo's burden. "Did you rob them blind?"

"No, I just took some food for myself – and paid for it too," Bilbo said with great deal of dignity. "Hobbits, I would have you knew, need to eat seven meals a day!"

"Oh, truly? What a hungry lot you are," Smaug said derisively. "How do you manage to do anything when you need to eat so often? All your days must be spent eating."

"In the Shire, they mostly are," Bilbo agreed and dropped the food sack on the grass and sat down with a sigh, off his painful feet at last. He rubbed them through the cloth he'd bound them in and looked up at the dragon. "How long until Mordor, do you know?"

"Two or three days until we reach the Mountains of Ash, I believe," Smaug said, looking around and then to the west. "We are now near the East Bight – tomorrow, we'll leave the Greenwood behind entirely, and enter the brownlands."

"Which are…?" Bilbo looked at him expectantly.

"Grass plains, mainly," Smaug answered and looked down at him. "Unsettled for the most part these days. The great Kingdom of Rhovanion used to be here, some shreds of it still remain I believe, but… things have changed here since Darkness returned to Dol Guldur."

"Dol Guldur – that was one of your lairs, wasn't it?" Bilbo asked. "After Gundabad."

"And before Erebor, yes," Smaug agreed and looked away again. "Before the spiders came and the darkness took it over. It wasn't much of a lair – little more than a ruin. The Hill of Dark Sorcery. It was one of the Dark Lord's strongholds, ages ago, and its security lied in the fact no one would willingly approach it.  Not until they did."

The dragon growled low in his throat and stood. "It is not far from here, as a dragon flies – and the faster we leave these parts with the One, the better. Are you ready to go, thief?"

Bilbo sighed and watched as Smaug eased the golden shield onto his back again, to sit over his spine. What he wouldn't have given for a saddle – even saddle sores were better than sitting on hard, unforgiving metal. "Three more days," he said, and pushed himself up and to his feet again, grabbing his sack of food. "And then what?"

"And then we face whatever forces remain in those mountains – and after that, the greater defences of Mordor itself," Smaug said and, grumbling in annoyance, bowed his head so that Bilbo could crawl up his neck and to his back. "And then, thief," Smaug said. "We remake history."

"Or die trying," Bilbo muttered, crawling over the gold until he found the spot where he usually sat – there was a lump there which was as good a seat as any, and had so far kept him from sliding off Smaug's back. "I'm ready," he said, trying the satchel of food around his back to keep it from flying off.

Smaug didn't answer, merely leapt up and spread his wings. With a few powerful wing beats, they were aloft and flying over the deserted village and its fields. Smaug flew heavier now, Bilbo observed, weighed down by his meal no doubt, but it made no difference to the speed, and once Smaug caught his stride it took no time at all to leave the village of Men behind.

"How often do dragons eat?" Bilbo wondered.

Smaug rumbled with amusement, the gold shivering under Bilbo as he did. "As often as we _like_."

 

* * *

 

"My lord, we have word of the Lonely Mountain. The dragon has left it."

"Left it?" Thranduil repeated softly, lifting his gaze. "What do you mean by that?"

"It was seen flying southward, my lord, two days ago," the messenger said, his head bowed. "And as far as our lookouts know, it has not yet returned, if it will at all."

Thranduil frowned and looked away. Left? Smaug would not just leave the hoard of Erebor, not just like that. Meaning that the mountain had been claimed – and the dragon had been, somehow, driven out of it and forced to flee. So, the Dwarves had succeeded in their foolish quest. But at what cost? "And Esgaroth?" Thranduil asked, looking at the messenger again. "Did the dragon spoil it?"

"Our lookouts report no such occurrence, my lord – the dragon did not touch Esgaroth," the messenger said and lifted his head. "It only left."

That was quite unexpected. To be chased out at all must've driven the dragon into a rage – and a dragons rage was always taken out at the easiest target nearby; which, by reason, should've been Lake-town. It presented nothing if not a tempting target for a dragon's fire as it sat there, atop the waves, a plum easily picked up and devoured. For Smaug to have done nothing to it was… astonishing.

"South you say," Thranduil mused and narrowed his eyes, deep in thought. Spiders in his forests and Orcs and Goblins on the move – and now Smaug was heading south. Thranduil hardly thought a dragon would seek refuge in the open plains of Rhovanion, no. It would be heading for another stronghold now, a far worse one. Called, no doubt, by the same siren's call that was coaxing the Darkness in the East. Things were moving in the shadows, things that had not moved in an age, and Thranduil did not much like what he read in their movement.

But that was a later concern – for now, there was Erebor, reclaimed and by the house of Durin again. A weakened, diminished house of Durin. The Dwarves numbered only at thirteen, had they not? Hardly a force to defend the mountain now that they had it – and defend it they would have to. All eyes would turn to it now that a dragon was no longer seated on his treasures. And some of those eyes would be increasingly _dark_ now, with what was brewing in the Darkness.

With Esgaroth unspoiled by the dragon, Thorin, if he had any sense at all, would look for allies in the Lakemen. Erebor could not prosper without the Men of Dale, after all, and there were still Men in Esgaroth that could claim that lineage. And it was only a matter of time before the Dwarves of the Iron Hills would come to bolster the defences of their kin at the Lonely Mountain. But would it be enough to keep it?

Thranduil squeezed his hand into a fist for a moment and then let it relax. There'd be war before Erebor would truly be claimed, before Thorin Oakenshield could be crowned King under the Mountain. While the word had come to him, it would have gone to others as well. No doubt there were already forces marching for the Lonely Mountain. There would be battle in the mountain's shadow and he who came out of those struggles victorious and claimed the mountain… would control a great portion of the east.

And Thranduil did not much enjoy the idea of an Orc King as his eastern neighbour. Having Gundabad north of the Greenwood was bad enough – but an Orc controlled Erebor? Not that he much enjoyed the concept of a Dwarf King either – a dragon, insular and asleep, had been preferable to that. It had kept the east peaceful for a century and more, if nothing else.

But Smaug was gone, and the lands it had left behind were on the brink of a change, for better and for worse. And if Darkness claimed Erebor and the lands it commanded, and opened up easy travel routes between Gundabad in the north, and Mordor in the south… Angmar might rise again.

"Bring my Captain of the Guard to me," Thranduil said to the messenger and turned away, a determined fire burning in his heart. "And tell the Master of the Stables to prepare the horses for a march."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin gets allies and Smaug learns of commerce. I tried to make Thranduil a bit more like leader of a nation that actually cares about his nation and what happens around it. So, yeah, no White Gems of Lasgalen here because nah.
> 
> (Also in my headcanon the reason Thorin was hit so bad with the Gold Sickness is because of the proximity of the One Ring, so, without that around...)


End file.
